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The breakup man
I nervously walked up and down the apartment.
I hated moments like the one I was about to have. Breaking someone's heart hurts almost as much as breaking theirs.
A year's relationship with Knobi was exciting at first, until the differences brought more and more conflict to light. For me at least. They didn't seem to bother him or he was a master at ignoring them.
To him, I was still the old Pfanni. Pfanni, because I smelled so good like pancakes with sweet vanilla sauce. A cozy feeling for home or mom, he said.
When I was also looking for a nickname for him, I wavered between Knobi or Lochi. Lochi, because everything was full of holes: socks, shoes, T-shirt, clothes... well, let's not go there. But in the end I decided on Knobi because I didn't want to pick on the shortcomings. And Knobi is actually self-explanatory - he eats garlic with almost every meal. Yes, even with pancakes. I was secretly a little proud of my capacity for love and the associated suffering.
I pushed the old records on the floor to one side with my toe. Roxette, The Cure and... Jack White. What was he thinking with the latter? Well, I shouldn't ask myself that question anymore anyway, because why do you give away flea market records if the recipient doesn't have a player for them? Bohemian and all that. At least that's what he said.
Knobi was still stuck in his dreams.
This "live for the day" attitude, which had attracted me at the beginning and gave me a feeling of lightness, became increasingly uncomfortable. I felt thwarted, because for some time I had been putting my ideas about life into practice through diligence and hard work.
And at some point, we just didn't fit together anymore.
The doorbell rang. My heart was pounding in my throat. A glance through the peephole. There he stood with his hair sticking out in all directions, unkempt. When we first met, I would have described it as bold.
"Hey babe. I brought you something." Smiling, he held out something wrapped in aluminum foil. A soggy slice of pizza that he had saved for me.
Oh man Knobi. Why are you making it so difficult for me, I sighed inwardly.
As he trotted into the living room behind me, he plucked up the nutshell on the way.
It didn't take any clairvoyant powers to match the clack-clack-clack to the salty peanuts that trickled through his holey trouser pocket onto the parquet exactly two seconds later.
He was so lovable and cute in his own way. To swallow the lump in my throat, I disappeared briefly into the bathroom. Tears were on the way. Take a deep breath, I told myself.
My eyes fell on the still packaged Zara Exclusive N°04 - Leather Jardin that my eccentric aunt slipped me as an insider tip. She, a histrionic actress, unsuccessfully opposes aging with all her might and obtrusively seeks the center of attention like a moth seeks the light.
"Wear it and unforeseen things happen! You'll make yourself interesting!" she whispered to me meaningfully in the beer garden. The dramaturge. Incidentally, she appeared there in a floor-length taffeta dress tied at the back with an oversized bow. It was reminiscent of a propeller, but somehow also had style.
All right, I groaned resignedly. I hadn't tested it yet. Maybe it would distract me a little from the sadness. So I sprayed and left the bathroom.
The moment I stepped back into the living room, Knobi got up from the couch in slow motion. He looked like he had just seen a ghost.
"Pfanni... now I know..." he stuttered, his eyes wide and his face pale. He moved backwards towards the exit. I didn't understand what was going on.
"Where is he? Where is he?" he asked several times in succession. Irritated, I assured him that there was no one else but him and the peanuts. Okay, Jack White, but he was lying on the floor in compressed form.
"Pfanni..." he began in a trembling voice when he had already reached the front door. "I know I can't offer you all the luxuries you like so much.... But I've obviously lost out to him. Have a nice life."
Tears stood in his eyes as he turned around and out of sight in the stairwell.
"Who did you lose to Knobi? Who do you mean?" I yelled from the top of the stairs to the bottom floors as my hands clutched at the terrain.
"Your sugar daddy!" he shouted back miserably.
And at that moment, the sillage hit me with full force. A resounding slap in the face, as strong as Arnold Schwarzenegger with galbanum boxing gloves. Moss tweaked the next chypre slap and leather knocked me out in the end. Knocked out
Did I see asterisks or did a chain-smoking ghost squeeze his spicy coriander glow on me afterwards?
Madness. Three sprays almost sawed my head off.
And then Knobi's escape dawned on me. He must have thought I had an old, well-off gentleman with an arrangement hiding in the bathroom, who quickly slipped me a kiss in his mustard-colored shirt.
Oh no! I felt terribly sorry for him. My guilty conscience and aching heart wrestled against my mind to put it right. The latter won out.
In any case, my aunt was right that unforeseen things happen. So the fragrance had done me a service in its tart, masculine existence without any grapefruit or roses and relieved me of the unpleasant task. It triggered anything but the desire for an intimate bond.
I have certainly kept the Zara Exclusive N°04 - Leather Jardin. Since then, it's been standing a little apart on the Frogs shelf. Perhaps it will become acquainted with those who didn't turn into the prince in the end. And if a frog is unimpressed and doesn't want to leave, I can say with a clear conscience that Zara Exclusive N°04 - Leather Jardin will last for days with just one application. It wins every arm wrestling match, my sugar daddy.
Garlic was not a final boss. Erba Pura certainly would be. But I'll never get involved with him in this life.
I hated moments like the one I was about to have. Breaking someone's heart hurts almost as much as breaking theirs.
A year's relationship with Knobi was exciting at first, until the differences brought more and more conflict to light. For me at least. They didn't seem to bother him or he was a master at ignoring them.
To him, I was still the old Pfanni. Pfanni, because I smelled so good like pancakes with sweet vanilla sauce. A cozy feeling for home or mom, he said.
When I was also looking for a nickname for him, I wavered between Knobi or Lochi. Lochi, because everything was full of holes: socks, shoes, T-shirt, clothes... well, let's not go there. But in the end I decided on Knobi because I didn't want to pick on the shortcomings. And Knobi is actually self-explanatory - he eats garlic with almost every meal. Yes, even with pancakes. I was secretly a little proud of my capacity for love and the associated suffering.
I pushed the old records on the floor to one side with my toe. Roxette, The Cure and... Jack White. What was he thinking with the latter? Well, I shouldn't ask myself that question anymore anyway, because why do you give away flea market records if the recipient doesn't have a player for them? Bohemian and all that. At least that's what he said.
Knobi was still stuck in his dreams.
This "live for the day" attitude, which had attracted me at the beginning and gave me a feeling of lightness, became increasingly uncomfortable. I felt thwarted, because for some time I had been putting my ideas about life into practice through diligence and hard work.
And at some point, we just didn't fit together anymore.
The doorbell rang. My heart was pounding in my throat. A glance through the peephole. There he stood with his hair sticking out in all directions, unkempt. When we first met, I would have described it as bold.
"Hey babe. I brought you something." Smiling, he held out something wrapped in aluminum foil. A soggy slice of pizza that he had saved for me.
Oh man Knobi. Why are you making it so difficult for me, I sighed inwardly.
As he trotted into the living room behind me, he plucked up the nutshell on the way.
It didn't take any clairvoyant powers to match the clack-clack-clack to the salty peanuts that trickled through his holey trouser pocket onto the parquet exactly two seconds later.
He was so lovable and cute in his own way. To swallow the lump in my throat, I disappeared briefly into the bathroom. Tears were on the way. Take a deep breath, I told myself.
My eyes fell on the still packaged Zara Exclusive N°04 - Leather Jardin that my eccentric aunt slipped me as an insider tip. She, a histrionic actress, unsuccessfully opposes aging with all her might and obtrusively seeks the center of attention like a moth seeks the light.
"Wear it and unforeseen things happen! You'll make yourself interesting!" she whispered to me meaningfully in the beer garden. The dramaturge. Incidentally, she appeared there in a floor-length taffeta dress tied at the back with an oversized bow. It was reminiscent of a propeller, but somehow also had style.
All right, I groaned resignedly. I hadn't tested it yet. Maybe it would distract me a little from the sadness. So I sprayed and left the bathroom.
The moment I stepped back into the living room, Knobi got up from the couch in slow motion. He looked like he had just seen a ghost.
"Pfanni... now I know..." he stuttered, his eyes wide and his face pale. He moved backwards towards the exit. I didn't understand what was going on.
"Where is he? Where is he?" he asked several times in succession. Irritated, I assured him that there was no one else but him and the peanuts. Okay, Jack White, but he was lying on the floor in compressed form.
"Pfanni..." he began in a trembling voice when he had already reached the front door. "I know I can't offer you all the luxuries you like so much.... But I've obviously lost out to him. Have a nice life."
Tears stood in his eyes as he turned around and out of sight in the stairwell.
"Who did you lose to Knobi? Who do you mean?" I yelled from the top of the stairs to the bottom floors as my hands clutched at the terrain.
"Your sugar daddy!" he shouted back miserably.
And at that moment, the sillage hit me with full force. A resounding slap in the face, as strong as Arnold Schwarzenegger with galbanum boxing gloves. Moss tweaked the next chypre slap and leather knocked me out in the end. Knocked out
Did I see asterisks or did a chain-smoking ghost squeeze his spicy coriander glow on me afterwards?
Madness. Three sprays almost sawed my head off.
And then Knobi's escape dawned on me. He must have thought I had an old, well-off gentleman with an arrangement hiding in the bathroom, who quickly slipped me a kiss in his mustard-colored shirt.
Oh no! I felt terribly sorry for him. My guilty conscience and aching heart wrestled against my mind to put it right. The latter won out.
In any case, my aunt was right that unforeseen things happen. So the fragrance had done me a service in its tart, masculine existence without any grapefruit or roses and relieved me of the unpleasant task. It triggered anything but the desire for an intimate bond.
I have certainly kept the Zara Exclusive N°04 - Leather Jardin. Since then, it's been standing a little apart on the Frogs shelf. Perhaps it will become acquainted with those who didn't turn into the prince in the end. And if a frog is unimpressed and doesn't want to leave, I can say with a clear conscience that Zara Exclusive N°04 - Leather Jardin will last for days with just one application. It wins every arm wrestling match, my sugar daddy.
Garlic was not a final boss. Erba Pura certainly would be. But I'll never get involved with him in this life.
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